AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Go on.” A firm hand between my shoulder blades nudges me out from behind the bar. My steps are clumsy, my sneakers scuffing against the floorboards. “Go on and clear this up, because I can’t stand him staring over here all shift. I’m gonna get a twitch.”
“Okay.”
But as I weave between tables, trying to swallow around the lump in my throat, my day gets even weirder. Because the boss waits until I’m close, then jerks his chin at his office and walks in there. To hisoffice.The backroom.
I follow, heart thumping madly. Why does he want to speak to me alone? Is he gonna fire me?
Even Kingston barely spends any time in this room. He prefers to do his admin stuff out in the bar where he can keep an eye on things, either scowling down at his paper records, or lit up by the screen of his laptop. This can’t be a good sign.
Whenever I peek through the doorway on quiet shifts, this office seems abandoned. Like a tiny ghost town. But now Kingston nods for me to shut the door behind me, and we’re closed in here together with the dark wood desk and an ancient spider plant.
He should really water that.
My fingers twist together, hands clasped in front of my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, right as Kingston says, “I got something for you.”
He pauses. “What are you sorry about?”
“Uh…” I stare up at him, palms sweaty as they cling together. You know, I used to say I wanted to be an emergency room nurse when I grew up, but thank god my grades were nothing special, because I’d have been terrible at that job. A few seconds under pressure and I’m ready to crack. All woozy again. “Saturday night? The head rush thing?”
Kingston’s frown deepens. Lord, he’s an intimidating man, with those muscles and scowls and the feral edge to him. He fills any room he steps into; looms so tall it makes my neck ache. When I draw in a shaky breath, the air smells like spice and the faint tang of hot metal.
Why am Iintothat? What is wrong with me?
“Don’t need to be sorry about that.” He’s as gruff as ever, low words rumbling between us.
I nod hastily. “Okay.” If he says so. “Then I’m not sorry after all.”
Kingston’s mouth curves up a smidge, his creased forehead relaxing. Ohshoot, this man is handsome when he stops glaring. What would a full smile look like? Bet it would knock me out at the knees.
“Good,” he says. “Well. Then I got you something.”
Heavy footsteps lead him around the desk. He yanks the middle drawer open, scooping something out and setting it on the scratched wood.
Neon pink fabric slithers into a pile. Forgetting to be scared for a moment, I step forward and poke it with one finger. “You got me a high vis?”
To wear at work? That’ll look very strange.
“Yeah.” Kingston sniffs, scratching the stubble on his jaw. “For when you cycle home at night. So drivers can see you in the dark.”
Huh. That is… very thoughtful. Now I have a lump in my throat for a whole new reason.
“Wear it in the day too,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion. It’s a command. I press my lips together, fighting to ignore the shivers skating down my arms. “Any time you get on that bike, I want you in this vest.”
I nod, holding it up so it dangles between us. “Sure, boss. It’s so fashionable, too. All the fellas will faint when I cycle by.”
And I’m just messing around, just trying to coax out one of his amused grunts, but that scowl slams back down. Dark eyes bore into me, so brown they’re nearly black, and his chest rises and falls beneath his shirt.
The top two buttons are open, like always. Through the sliver of his shirt, you can see tanned skin. The edges of a dark tattoo. His collarbone. The beginnings of his black chest hair.
Oof. I let the neon vest drop.
“Got you something else,” Kingston mutters, even though he’s gone all closed off again. He scoops one more thing out of the desk drawer and tosses it on top of the pile of neon fabric. It’s small and square—made of black plastic and covered with buttons.
“Um.” Picking it up, I turn the object in my hands. What the hell is it? Sometimes, characters in old books and movies talk about pagers. Is this a pager? “Thank you?”
“It’s a personal alarm.”
